


shape-shift and trick [the past again]

by ModernMyth



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Eliot-centric, Fix-It, M/M, Minor drug references, Parallel Universes, Smut, So here we are, Time Travel, body swap shenanigans, it's been a while since i was in a fandom where i could play with this kind of trope, maybe more in a later chapter but we'll see, minor smut, references to 3.05 and 4.05, time loops, title stolen from black sheep by metric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-09 02:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernMyth/pseuds/ModernMyth
Summary: Somehow, after a long decade of struggling with the mosaic and living a beautiful life of significance with Quentin Coldwater, Eliot has woken up in his room at Brakebills.He sits up and runs a haggard hand through his hair. “What thefuck?"





	1. Chapter 1

Eliot wakes up slowly, burying his head into the most comfortable pillow he can remember using in years, content and uncomprehending and far too tired to question what might be going on beyond his sheer willingness to sink back into the luxurious bedding and sleep for another hour or four. However, life apparently has other ideas, and the sound of high-pitched laughter and heavy footsteps outside the room confuse Eliot enough to rub the sleep from his eyes and process where he is - which, if he’s not tripping on a drug he doesn’t remember taking or hasn’t completely lost his mind  - appears to be his old room at the Cottage.

Somehow, after a long decade of struggling with the mosaic and living a beautiful life of significance with Quentin Coldwater, he has woken up at Brakebills.

He sits up and runs a haggard hand through his hair. “What the _fuck?_ ”

Shaking his head and wondering if he’d bought some bad wine from the market, Eliot rises slowly, glancing around. It _looks_ like his old room at the Cottage, but now that he’s paying attention, there are differences. _Significant_ differences. A pile of clothes in the corner, a pair of boots by the door that are definitely smaller than his size, and a half-empty bottle of some fruity drink he’s never particularly liked, next to a well-worn copy of _The World in the Walls_ on his nightstand.

It may be his room, Eliot acknowledges, but he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one living in it. And he’s certainly got his suspicions about who might be sharing the room with him.

“Seriously,” he shakes his head. “ _What_ the _fuck?”_

 

\--

 

When Eliot wakes, the first feeling he perceives is that of pure, exquisite pleasure. He does not question the warm, wet, familiar suction on his cock - he just takes a sharp breath and tries desperately not to finish things too soon, blinking his eyes open and meeting Quentin’s gaze. The eye contact doesn’t make things easier, of course; it only makes restraining himself more difficult, and his eyes flutter closed again as he lets out a throaty sound of desperation he doesn’t recognize as his own. Eliot bites his lip and threads his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair - _has it gotten longer, somehow?_ \- and lets out a long moan when he feels a hand cup his balls.

He usually prides himself on lasting much longer than this, but _fuck_ , it is so, _so_ good. Their sex life has always been phenomenal, but this is _next level_ , like Quentin took a crash course in the nuances of Eliot’s body overnight. The perfect, firm grip around his cock, the swirl of his tongue, the way he seems to anticipate the moment Eliot has had enough teasing.

He gasps, “Q, I’m  - ”

It’s all the warning he’s able to give, and Quentin and only buries his head deeper, swallowing around him, and Eliot erupts, groaning loudly and coming in waves.

Eliot thinks that several hazy minutes must have passed before he finally wakes up and pays enough attention to his surroundings to suddenly realize _he has no idea where the fuck he is_.

The first thing he does is turn around in the bed to look at Quentin; and he’s _really_ looking at Quentin now, for the first time since he woke up, and - oh, _fuck_...his boyfriend is just as beautiful as he was yesterday, but there are lines around his eyes Eliot knows weren’t there when they went to sleep last night. His hair is longer, too, and he is starting to idly wonder what Quentin’s hair would look like in a messy bun, when he is interrupted by a warm, familiar voice.

“El? Are you okay?”

He answers honestly. “I’m wonderful.” He pauses, then tucks a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “However…we should probably discuss the fact that I have no idea where the fuck we _are_.”

 

\--

 

Eliot pulls on a pair of pants he thinks must be his, then heads downstairs to the Cottage kitchen in hopes of finding someone that can tell him what the actual fuck is going on. Quentin is at the table, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a copy of _The Girl Who Told Time_ , and Eliot breathes a sigh of pure relief. At least Quentin is here with him.

“Hey,” Quentin smiles wide and bright when he sees him. “Saved you some coffee, if you want.”

Eliot nods slowly, eyes darting across Quentin’s face. He hadn’t noticed it right away, but now that he’s up close, he can see the differences - the shorter hair, the lack of laugh lines, and there’s a small scar that seems to have disappeared from his cheek.

He doesn’t know if he’s in the past, or an alternate timeline, or if this is some crazy spell, but he knows this is not the Quentin Coldwater that usually shares his bed.

Eliot decides to pour himself the offered cup of coffee before facing his situation - it’s been years now since his last decent cup. Then he sits down beside Quentin, swallowing half the mug in one go, savoring the burn on his throat.

Turning to face Quentin, he puts down his drink. “Hey.”

Then Quentin reaches out a hand to cup his cheek, pulling Eliot into a slow, soft kiss.

 _Definitely an alternate timeline_ , he thinks.

“Good morning,” Quentin murmurs against his lips.

Eliot offers him a small smile, then pulls back a few inches. “Morning, Q.” He clears his throat. “We need to talk.”

 

\--

 

Quentin stares at him for a long moment, brows furrowed with concern. “You don’t know where we are? El, did you hit your head or something?”

Eliot purses his lips. “My head feels fine. Do you have any idea if I took something last night? A Josh Hoberman Special, maybe?”

Quentin’s jaw goes slack. “Josh...Hoberman…” He puts a hand to Eliot’s forehead, seemingly trying to gage his temperature. “We haven’t seen Josh in over a decade. Do you feel okay? You’re scaring me.”

The sweet relief of afterglow is gone now, and panic slowly starts to creep into Eliot’s veins.

“Q…” he shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m _your_ Eliot.”

“Not my…” Quentin mutters, looking more confused now than ever, “What do you mean by that? Is this about you wanting to fuck that hot ironsmith? Because we talked about that, and you know I don’t mind if - ”

“Quentin,” Elliot cuts him off, and he must know how serious Eliot is now to be using his full name. “This isn’t about the ironsmith. Who the fuck is still an _ironsmith?_ ” Anxiety rises in his chest, choking him. He grits his teeth. “I don’t know where we _are_ , Q. Last night I went to sleep at the Cottage, and I woke up _here_.”

“The Cottage?” Quentin repeats slowly. “You were at _Brakebills?_ ”

“ _Yes_. I was at Brakebills. Because that’s where I live, it’s where I go to school.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m definitely going to be late for class with Bigby.”

Quentin stares at him in open shock for several long moments. “You’re from another timeline.”

“Looks like it.”

The look of shock on Quentin’s face turns to horror, in an instant. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_. Fuck, are you sure you’re okay? Oh my god, I woke you up with a _blow job_. Eliot, fuck, I’m _so_ sorry - I had no idea - ”

Eliot shuts him up the only way he knows will work, pressing firm lips against Quentin’s, cupping his face in his hands. He pulls back only slightly to look at him, then whispers, “Breathe, Q.”

He listens, taking a deep, steadying breath, and Eliot presses a kiss to his forehead and makes Quentin meet his eyes.

“I’m fine. Other than the still having no idea where or when I am thing. But this morning was not my first time waking up with my cock in Quentin Coldwater’s mouth. The only thing I was questioning was why you suddenly had so much hair for me to hold onto.”

“We’re...together? In your timeline? At Brakebills?”

“For just over a year now.”

Quentin gives him a hesitant, surprised smile. “ _Oh_. Good for us.”

“I’m guessing it took a bit more in your timeline, huh?”

Quentin gives Eliot a rueful smile. “A bit, yeah.”

He rises from the bed, and Eliot takes the moment to appreciate Quentin’s bare ass - _still looking damn good_ , he thinks - and Quentin tosses him some clothing.

“You finally going to tell me where the hell we are?” he asks, pulling on a pair of pants.

“Well...let me ask you a quick question - have you read any of the _Fillory and Further_ books?”

Eliot frowns. “Why?”

“C’mon,” Quentin gestures for Eliot to follow him, and they travel from the tiny bedroom out into a small kitchenette of some sort, with no appliances he recognizes. But Quentin is grabbing his hand and ushering him out the front door moments later.

Colored tiles lay everywhere, in a vibrant pattern before him, with others of various colors strewn about the surrounding area. Forrest surrounds them on all sides, and the air smells sweet. He can almost feel the magic in the air, a palpable thing. This place is like nowhere he has ever seen.

He looks at Quentin, a question in his eyes.

Quentin nods. “Welcome to Fillory.”

 

\--

 

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not breaking up with me,” young Quentin says with an edge of desperation. “Because that phrase never leads to anything good.”

Eliot tries not to laugh and shakes his head. “I’m not breaking up with you. It’s nothing like that.”

Quentin’s frown deepens. “Then what’s going on?”

“The thing is, Q...and I know this is going to sound pretty crazy, so I need you to believe me, okay? I need you to trust that I’m telling you the truth.”

Quentin nods, reaching to grab Elliot’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “El?”

“I don’t belong here. And by here, I don’t mean Brakebills. Well, I kind of mean Brakebills…” he sighs. “What I mean is...I’m not _from_ here. This timeline. I haven’t been back to Brakebills in _years_. I don’t even live on _Earth_ anymore. Last night, you and I fell asleep in our little cabin in the woods, all aged up, and _poof_ , here I am. At the Cottage.”

Quentin stares at him in disbelief for several long moments, searching Eliot’s face. He swallows hard.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Eliot nods. “Very.”

He’s eternally grateful for Quentin’s faith in magic and in _him_. Believing in this crazy tale without hesitation. A pang of longing strikes him, for his own Quentin, for _Teddy_. As nice as it is to see that there’s a universe out there where Quentin falls for him without having to be trapped on a potentially life-long quest, Eliot can’t stay.

“Holy shit,” Quentin whispers.

Eliot squeezes his hand. “I need you to help me find a way back.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had some formatting issues ao3 wouldn't let me fix, so I deleted and reposted within the span of a couple of hours. If you happened to read it before the reposting, chapter two has no changes beyond formatting.

 

“So,” Quentin starts, pulling his long hair back into a loose bun, and a big part of Eliot wants to jump him, then and there. He continues, “I know the whole living in another realm thing is probably a lot to take in, but there’s something else you really need to know.”

Eliot feels his brows shoot up toward his hairline. “More than _Fillory?_ Jesus, Q, what kind of shit have you gotten yourself into now?”

Quentin chuckles. “It’s nothing bad. It’s great, actually. It’s...it’s _everything_. But - it may be a lot for you to handle, on top of everything else.”

 _Of course_ there’s something else - waking up in a strange land can’t be the end of it.

Eliot sighs. “Lay it on me.”

“We have a son.”

Eliot is silent for long moments, then he sinks into a chair beside the mosaic. He’s not quite sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that.

His voice is gruff when he finally responds, “A son?”

Quentin nods, taking a seat beside him and giving him a measured look.

“His name is Teddy.” He pauses, “Theodore Rupert. And, um - he spent the night at a friend’s last night, for which I am now _very_ grateful, but, uh, he should be home sometime in the next hour or so.”

Eliot swallows hard and wonders idly if they’ve got any Fillorian wine in their tiny kitchen. “And he’s _ours?_ I... _how?”_

Quentin gives him a small, sad smile. “I had a wife. Her name was Arielle. She, uh...she died.”

Eliot frowns. “I’m sorry. That’s...that’s fucking terrible. How long ago?”

“A little over four years now.”

“God, Q. How old was Teddy?”

Quentin looks at the ground. “Four.”

Eliot shakes his head. “I...fuck, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, El. I’m okay. And so is Teddy. We...we were lucky to have her as long as we did. And we’ve still got full, happy lives.”

“And when did we...you and the other me, that is...when did you guys get together? Was it...recent?”

“Not at all,” Quentin replies. “We’d only been in Fillory a year, when things first started between us. It was the anniversary of our first year here, and I just...kissed you. And we’ve been together ever since.”

“Ever since? So Arielle... _knew_ about us and…?”

Quentin flashes him a sliver of a smirk. “She was officially my wife, but...the three of us were sort of... _together_. As in…”

Eliot lets out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back in genuine amusement. “Are you trying to tell me we were a polyamorous throuple?” He grins. “Quentin Coldwater, I had no idea you had it in you. I must say, I’m impressed.”

He shrugs. “Fillory may be more or less pre-industrial, but when it comes to matters of the heart, the people here are significantly more open-minded than you would expect.”

“Huh.”

There is a noise behind them, and they both turn. It’s just a small animal, running through the brush, but it leads Eliot to notice a mirror behind him, beside a basin of water. Curious, Eliot reaches for the mirror and decides to take a look.

Quentin stiffens beside him, almost like he knows what must be coming next.

“Oh my god,” Eliot’s voice goes flat looking at his own reflection. “Am I going _grey?”_

 

\--

 

No matter what timeline he is in, it would appear that Quentin Coldwater is always ready for a quest. He takes Eliot’s plea seriously, whether because he wants his _own_ Eliot back or because he feels sympathetic to the cause, Eliot does not know. But Quentin starts upon this quest as he does any other - with single-minded devotion and moderate overconfidence. He stands, shoves a handful of granola bars into his messenger bag, and tugs Eliot by the hand to stand up.

“You should probably put on a shirt,” Quentin suggests, a thread of humor lacing his tone. “We definitely need to go figure this thing out.”

Eliot finishes off his coffee, then walks toward the stairs. He stops before heading up, turning back to Quentin. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For believing me.”

When Quentin blushes in response, Eliot is kind enough not to call him on it.

He runs to his room, pulls on a few more layers, and meets Quentin at the door.

If he had to be magically transported somewhere, Eliot supposes, at least Brakebills is somewhere that can _help_.

They find Alice in the university library, pouring over an old book Eliot doesn’t recognize, practicing what appears to be Popper 48.

 _Alice Quinn_ , Eliot thinks. Quentin’s dream girl, in the flesh. These young versions of themselves have never met the Beast, they haven’t seen what he has or lived through more personal tragedies than one has the right to bare. Alice Quinn is alive and well and has never become a Niffin.

This universe’s Quentin isn’t trapped in a small cabin on a never-ending quest with him. He’s got a million options, his whole life ahead of him, and _this_ Quentin has chosen to be with _Eliot_.

He has to shake himself to stop from grinning. It really wouldn’t suit the direness of the situation.

“Time loops?” he hears Alice ask, and Quentin nods beside him.

“Could be a completely alternate universe,” Eliot adds, considering this group’s lack of run-ins with Martin Chatwin. “Or a spell. But - well, with my history - still probably a time loop.”

“And you have no idea how you got here?” Alice looks a little too eager, and Eliot barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

“Not a one. Fell asleep in one timeline - in my _mid-thirties_ , mind you - and woke up here in the Cottage for the first time in over a decade.”

Alice snaps her book closed and stands. “Okay. This may be a long shot, but...I think I might know where to start.”

 

\--

 

Teddy, as it turns out, is _fantastic_.

Eliot has never liked kids, and he sure as hell has never wanted them. But _this_ kid is sweet and smart and funny and _loves_ him for some beautiful, unconditional reason he cannot quite comprehend.

Quentin and himself, in the short minutes before Teddy’s arrival, had decided to act like nothing was different. If all else failed, Eliot would fake a headache and hide in the cabin.

But, miraculously, it had not been necessary.

Apparently, the older version of himself had recently decided to teach his eight year old son the rules of both Blackjack _and_ Texas Hold’em - _they really_ are _different versions of the same person, aren't they?_

The cards in Fillory are a little different, but after letting Teddy win the first couple of hands, he figures the alterations out quickly enough. He still lets Teddy win every few hands, but he makes sure to give him a challenge from time to time, once Eliot has the rules figured out.

Quentin watches the whole exchange with mild surprise and a grin.

They play cards for hours and have a family picnic of ripe fruits and veggie stew, sitting around leisurely on the mosaic, the sun beating down on their faces. Teddy regales them with stories from his sleepover the night before, talking their ears off about some vaguely-athletic game that sounds suspiciously like hopscotch.

Eventually, Teddy disappears into the cabin, yelling over his shoulder that he wants to work on his drawings, and they don’t see him again until dinner.

Once they are alone, to Eliot’s pleasant surprise, Quentin pulls a flask out of his pocket and passes it to Eliot.

“You’re good with him,” Quentin says quietly.

Eliot shrugs. “He’s a good kid. And a bit of a card shark.” He untwists the cap and takes a swig from the flask, wincing.

“Is this _hooch?”_

Quentin laughs. “Our neighbor makes it. Fillory hasn’t really perfected their alcohol industry yet.”

“Clearly,” he replies drily.

“Drink up,” Quentin instructs, pulling out an array of chalk and some very colorful papers. “It’s time to earn your keep.”

 

\--

 

 _“Really_ , dumbass?”

Penny sounds _pissed_.

“You’re having interdimensional travel issues, and you didn’t think to - I don’t know - _ask the fucking traveler?”_

“Uh…” Quentin splutters.

“You’re a real piece of work, Coldwater.”

Eliot interrupts them. “Could we perhaps set your relationship dramatics aside for another day? Because, not to _pressure_ you,” his voice drips with sarcasm,  “But in my timeline, I’m kind of in the middle of trying to save _all_ of magic in _all_ dimensions? Which could, theoretically, impact the likes of you all, as well.” He clears his throat. “So, you know…” he claps his hands twice. “Chop chop!”

He _was_ once High King of Fillory, after all. He knows how to get people to listen.

After sharing with Penny the details of their situation - and a long speech from Penny about the mechanics of interdimensional travel, which somehow launched Alice into a series of questions about tesla flexions - Penny and Alice decide it’s time to bring their dilemma to Fogg.

They’d taken charge; apparently Eliot and Quentin are just along for the ride.

 

\--

 

“We don’t have to share, you know,” Quentin tells Elliot for the third time, as the pair of them climb into the small bed, just barely enough room for both of them.

“You’re not sleeping on one of the day beds outside, Q. Besides, what if Teddy notices something? You don’t need him thinking we’re in a fight.”

“I guess that’s true…”

“And what if it rains? With all that hair, you’d look like some sort of drowned animal.”

Quentin chuckles. “Such a sweet talker.”

Eliot gives him a cheeky grin. “Well, you know me.”

Quentin gives him a sad smile in return.

“Night, El,” he whispers, then turns over in the bed, facing away from him.

Several hours pass, with tossing and turning and intermittent sleep. Eliot knows he must have at least dozed off at some point, because when he wakes again, he is alone in the bed. He waits a few minutes before he stands and stretches his legs.

He finds Quentin outside the cabin, sitting next a dying fire, his head in his hands. Eliot stands stock-still. He stares at Quentin, watches his shoulders heave, and he wants to weep along with him. Eliot watches him silently for long minutes, knowing that Quentin deserves his privacy in this moment, but he cannot seem to tear his gaze away.

Seeing the man he loves breaking down like this, even if he’s not _exactly_ the man he’d fallen for, breaks Eliot’s goddamn heart.

In the end, he doesn’t have to decide what to do.

Quentin’s voice is raspy. “I know you’re there, Eliot. It’s okay.”

Eliot swallows hard and crosses the mosaic to take a seat beside him.

“Sorry,” Eliot murmurs.

“I’m not mad,” Quentin replies.

His voice is soft. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really,” he whispers. “I just...god, I miss him. I - I _need_ my Eliot back. I can’t do this without him.”

“Well,” Eliot begins, reaching out and taking Quentin’s hand. “I know damn well that’s not true. You, Quentin Coldwater, are much, _much_ stronger than you know. You’re made of tougher stuff than that. And I _know_ this is hard; I get that I’m not missing my co-parent and partner of a decade or anything on that grand of a scale, but fuck, I miss _my_ Quentin too, okay? I _know_ , Q. I know.” Eliot squeezes his hand, and Quentin tightens his grip.

Using his free hand, Eliot uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the tears from Quentin’s cheeks. They both shiver a little, and he’s not quite sure if it’s the wind chill or the intimacy of the contact.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Eliot tells him, more certain than he has any right to be. “Somehow we’re going to figure this thing out, okay? I’ve got your back, Coldwater.”

They spend another half hour by the fire in companionable silence, just holding hands, before Eliot suggests they head back inside and try to get some sleep. Crawling into bed, he doesn’t let Quentin turn away from him this time. Eliot wraps an arm around him and pulls his head onto Eliot’s chest. Quentin settles immediately with a small sigh, and minutes later, sleep has claimed them both.

 

\--

 

“Why is it always fucking time loops?” Dean Fogg mutters, pouring scotch into his empty glass with a heavy hand.

 _Huh_ , Eliot thinks sadly. _Maybe this group still has a date with the Beast, after all_.

Without a thought, Eliot grabs the bottle from Fogg’s desk and pours a glass for himself.

“When _isn’t_ it a fucking time loop?”

 _Damn_ , he’s missed the taste of scotch.

Fogg sighs. “I think I’ve got a solution, but you’re not going to like it.”

Eliot narrows his eyes. “Care to elaborate?”

“You’re headed to Antarctica.”

Eliot groans.

Fogg shrugs. “It will take me awhile to set up a portal. Meet me back here in three hours. And _do_ try not to get yourselves into any more trouble in the meantime.”

 _Hmm_. Hours to kill and a plan already in place. He turns to Quentin when they leave the Dean’s office, lips curling up at the edges.

“Care for a walk?”

They wind up strolling around the campus, wandering through the maze and stopping under a tree to puff on a pack of cigarettes Eliot finds in his jacket pocket.

 _Sweet, sweet nicotine_.

Another vice he has missed.

“You know,” Quentin starts, “I’ve said this to my Eliot before, but…” he flicks the ash off the butt of his cigarette. “Merits are for pussies.”

Eliot chokes on a laugh and looks at Quentin with affection. “You know, I think I’ve heard that one before.”

Quentin grins.

And now, with time on their side for just a moment, Eliot has to ask.

“Q? I’ve been wondering, and if there’s any time to bring it up, it’s now…”

Quentin tamps out his cigarette and turns to face him directly. “Yeah?”

“You and _your_ Eliot...how did you get together?”

Quentin tilts his head and gives him a considering look. “I came onto him at a party, three weeks into my first year.” He shrugs. “The liquor made me brave, or maybe stupid, and well, I can be kind of a sloppy drunk, so nothing happened. Not at first. But once you knew I was into you…” Quentin smiles warmly. “We got together about a month later.”

“Right off the bat, huh? Wow.”

“Yep,” Quentin agrees, voice hesitant. “You seem...pretty surprised by that?” It’s not really a question, but he phrases it like one.

“I…” Eliot’s voice breaks. Because the truth is starting to dawn on him now. Because _maybe_ he’s been assuming some things over the years that he’d never actually talked about with _his_ Quentin, and maybe, just _maybe_ , he was _really fucking wrong_.

“I never really realized he liked guys,” Eliot admits eventually, in a distant voice that doesn’t sound like his own. “Not when, uh, given a real choice.”

Quentin’s voice is sad when he replies. “You think he’s with you out of convenience.”

Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat, and Quentin continues.

“I may not know your timeline, El, but I can’t imagine a world where I would only want be with you because there was no one else. You’re my _family_. In any place or time. You will always be more to me than that. No matter what.”

Eliot has to hide his face for a moment, discreetly wiping a couple of stray tears from his cheeks, and Quentin politely pretends not to notice.

Later, as the sun starts to dip in the sky, Quentin sits up straight and breaks their quiet revery.

“We should eat,” he suggests. “We have to meet with Fogg soon.”

“Right,” Eliot agrees, and they go to the Cottage for a quick meal before heading back to the Dean’s office.

The portal is ready and waiting when they arrive.

Fogg grips his shoulder hard and wishes him luck in a serious tone. “I hope you get home safe, Mr. Waugh.”

Eliot nods, then gives him a calculating look. “Be careful.”

Fogg makes a noise of acknowledgement. Then Eliot is gripping young Quentin’s hand as they are ushered into the portal and away from his old home at Brakebills.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this turned into a three parter after all? Oops. Third and final chapter coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 ****When Eliot wakes, Quentin’s head is still on his chest, heartbeat thumping beneath his ear, steadying them both. Now that Eliot’s been stuck here a day, no progress made, he and this Quentin will have to discuss a game plan. There have to be some resources here they can use - Fillory does not just _have_ magic; it _is_ magic. Something here must be able to help them.

Eliot shifts, gently sliding a pillow underneath Quentin’s head. He sits up, careful not to disturb him. He looks at this older version of his boyfriend for a long moment, drinking in the sight of him. If this is what his Q is going to look like in ten years, Eliot is one lucky son of a bitch.

He just needs to find a way to get back to him.

Eliot washes up, then heads into the tiny kitchen, looking around. Quentin had taken up the responsibility of cooking yesterday, but Eliot gets the distinct impression that he himself is generally the chef of the family. He peruses their food supply - it’s looking a bit sparse; maybe he should suggest a trip into the village.

He’s just found a jar of some sort of fruity jam-like substance  - peach, probably, but maybe they have a different name for it in Fillory - when he hears the shuffle of footsteps approaching behind him.

“Papa?”

Teddy’s voice is quiet and sleepy, and he is rubbing his eyes in what Eliot considers a disturbingly adorable manner when he turns to face him.

“Morning, Teddy.” He smiles, and it’s not difficult at all, somehow, to slip into conversation with this child that isn’t his. “Hey there. How’d you sleep?”

Teddy yawns. “Good. Are you making breakfast?”

“I might be,” Eliot says coyly. “Any requests?”

Teddy’s head perks up. “Jam?”

Eliot chuckles under his breath. “Did you want something _with_ that jam, or are you expecting me to just hand you the jar and a spoon?”

Teddy giggles, and Eliot finds it ridiculously endearing. He grabs a loaf of bread from the counter and a knife. “Maybe some toast? We can make some extra for your dad.”

Teddy grins, then nods. “Plums too?”

“Sure, kid.”

They work together as a pair, and Eliot thinks idly that, stuck in the past or not, the Eliot of this timeline has a pretty fucking fantastic life here. A small part of him is jealous - he’s never really wanted a family of his own; he’s rejected the mere concept for years, considering the shit show in which he was raised. But this life he’s found himself in, all of a sudden, feels so completely _right_ somehow.

Fillory is making him question the things he thought he already knew about himself.

He and Teddy are making scrambled eggs - at least, Eliot _thinks_ they are eggs, but the shell does have a strange blue hue to them he’s been trying not to overthink - when Quentin enters the room.

Quentin smiles, slow and a little reluctant, but wide and very, very real.

Eliot clears his throat. “So, uh...breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, then snags a piece of half-eaten toast out of Eliot’s hand. He smirks playfully, “That would be really nice.”

 

\--

 

It’s dawn when they arrive, and Eliot wishes desperately that he’d suggested they take a nap earlier, before they headed to Fogg. He feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. One would think this younger body might be a bit more spry, but Eliot knows well enough the conditions he’d put his body through back in his Brakebills days. He doubts this version of himself is that much different, even if he’s got Quentin as a stabilizing influence - the lucky bastard.

“After we begin,” Mayakovsky says in a thick accent, “We will only have moments. This is tricky, volatile magic. Now is the time to say your…” he speaks the next word with disdain, “ _...goodbyes_.”

“Can we have a minute?” Quentin asks him.

Mayakovsky rolls his eyes, but then he leaves the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Eliot turns to Quentin. “Thank you,” he says in an earnest voice. “For your help. For believing me. For…” he gives him a soft smile. “ _Everything_.”

Quentin rubs at a spot on the back of his neck, cheeks flushing pink. “I, uh, I kind of have something for you.”

“Oh really?” Eliot drawls. “You _shouldn’t_ have.”

“I didn’t, really, I - uh, just - ” Quentin fumbles in his jeans pocket and extracts a folded up piece of paper. “Here,” he awkwardly shoves the paper toward Eliot. Quentin continues, “But it’s, uh, it’s actually for the Quentin in _your_ timeline.”

Eliot quirks a brow. “...Interesting choice in goodbye gift, but I’ll take it.”

Quentin huffs a laugh, looking embarrassed. “Just - it’s fine if you read it, too, but not until you’re back, okay? Give it to him first. He should read it.” He pauses, looking at Eliot imploringly. _“Please.”_

Eliot swallows. “Of course. Anything.”

He carefully tucks the letter into his jacket pocket and gives Quentin a strained smile.

“So…”

_“So…”_

They stare at each other for a moment, and it’s clear that neither of them is quite sure what to say. And there is so, _so_ much that Eliot would like to tell this Quentin. What this Quentin and his friends might face. Everything that Eliot has learned in his time here. He’s only been in this alternate timeline for a little over a day, and yet somehow it has changed _everything_ for Eliot.

“Should I ask what it says, or do I not want to know?”

Quentin shakes his head, half-amused and half-exasperated. “Just reminding other me that you’re an insecure asshole who needs to hear exactly how much other me cares about you.”

Eliot gapes at him.

Quentin shrugs. “My Eliot and I had a bit of a similar problem a few months back.”

“You’re something else, Coldwater,” Eliot says fondly.

“So I’m told. Quite frequently. By you. _And_ Margo.”

Pain twinges in his chest at the sound of her name. He’d only gotten a glimpse of her from across the campus yesterday, looking as bold and beautiful as ever. Eliot had frozen to the spot, eyes wide with longing, and then he allowed himself to be dragged away by a quest-eager Quentin toward the library.

Eliot must be quiet for a moment too long, because now Quentin is taking his hand again and looking at him with concern.

“You okay?”

“I will be.” He sighs. “It has been one very, very long day.”

There is a loud noise outside the door, like Mayakovsky has thrown something at it.

Quentin says drily, “I think that might be our cue.”

Eliot gives him a fond look, then pulls him into a hug. “Q...it was very, very good to meet this you.”

He presses a tender kiss to Quentin’s forehead, who seems to melt a little in the embrace.

“You too, El.”

The door slams open.

“Time’s up,” Mayakovsky says gruffly.

Minutes later, Eliot is standing inside a chalk circle, doused in some truly awful smelling herbs, and Mayakovsky is holding some sort of round device Eliot does not recognize nor understand. Whatever the fuck it is he’s doing, it must be working. Eliot can feel the swirl of heavy magic surrounding them, and his fingertips are beginning to tingle.

He meets Quentin’s eyes, who looks a bit astounded by the whole process.

Eliot gives him a sly smile. “Thanks again, for everything. Time for me to head back home to Fillory.”

The tingling has taken over his whole body now.

“Back to... _WHAT?”_

Eliot grins, taking in Quentin’s expression of utter astonishment.

And then he blacks out.

 

\--

 

Apparently, they needed to go into town anyway, to walk Teddy to school. It reminds Eliot of a quaint little school house from the 1800s - there are only eight other children in Teddy’s grade, according to Quentin. Quite a change from any formal education Eliot himself has experienced.

After dropping him off, Quentin decides to show Eliot around the Fillorian market, and it is like none he has ever seen. It’s like going to a Renaissance fair on another planet. Eliot feels high on the atmosphere of it all; the feeling of heady magic in his veins. He tells Quentin as much, and he agrees, but adds - “That may actually be the opium” - which, upon the reflection, Eliot thinks explains quite a lot.

Once they’ve purchased a few necessary groceries, Quentin takes the time to show him certain places he thinks Eliot might appreciate - a small store full of dusty books, an ancient-looking apothecary full of herbs and potions that Eliot keeps an eye on for the later possible recreational activities, and a small pub where they share a bottle of plumb wine while picking at some sort of charcuterie plate of cheeses, nuts, and dried meats that Eliot does not recognize.

“So,” Quentin starts, draining his glass of overly sweet wine. “Two things - number one, we need to figure out what the hell we are going to tell Teddy if you end up stuck here in the long term. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything is wrong yet, but sooner or later, he’s going to bring up some old memory from before you got here, and you’re going to have no idea what he’s talking about. He’ll _know_. And I can’t be there to supervise every conversation the pair of you have.”

Eliot nods. “Agreed. I’ve got a couple of ideas, but we can get to that in a minute. You said _two_ things?”

“Right. Number two, we need to start looking for some leads. We don’t know if you and the Eliot of my timeline both switched places, or if he’s somewhere else entirely, or if he’s…” Quentin trails off, not finishing his sentence. He can’t. And Eliot does not need him to verbalize it.

“You’re the one who knows this place. Where do you think we should start?”

Quentin frowns. “We’ve got a few options, but none of them are great. There’s this man from Loria. A magician, supposedly.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if he’s the real deal or if he just knows how to do a few illusions and has the people convinced he’s got some actual power, but...it’s worth looking into, at least. I know a guy who knows him, but...problem is, he’s not really around right now. He’s hibernating.”

Eliot gives him a blank look.

Quentin elaborates, “He’s a bear.”

“Right. Talking bears, huh?”

Quentin nods. “As another option, there are some questing animals we may be able to find and ask for help, but that will take preparation. And possibly weapons.”

“Not sounding great there, Q.”

“Well, option number three is petitioning Ember and Umber, so you may want to jump onboard with option number two.”

Eliot pours empties the last of their wine into his glass. “Sounds like it’s option two or wait for spring.”

“Right,” Quentin agrees in a solemn voice. “Which leads us back to topic number one. Teddy.”

“Amnesia is a thing here, right? Can we just tell him it’s that? Say I got hit in the head.”

Quentin looks torn. “It’s an option, I guess. But...he’s a smart kid. Truth be told, I’m not sure how long he will buy that excuse. We may need to tell him what’s really happening. Or at least, the most simplified version we’ve got.”

Eliot lets out a slow breath. “That poor kid. He’s seen enough loss already.”

Quentin lowers his eyes. “I know,” he whispers. “Gods, I know. But the longer this goes on...he’s going to be able to tell. That you’re not _him_.” He clears his throat. “I’m not saying we tell him the truth _tonight_ , but...we may have to, eventually.”

“Okay,” Eliot replies. “If that’s what you think is right, then that’s what we’ll do. Quentin - “ he pauses, “Look, I want to get home. Back to school and my boyfriend and my Bambi. And we’re going to gear up and go questing and figure this thing out, okay? But you need to know - I’m here for you. I know I’m not the Eliot you want, but no matter what happens, I will be here to support you. And Teddy. For as long as I’m here. You are _not_ alone, okay?”

Quentin swallows hard. “Okay. I…” he reaches out and squeezes Eliot’s hand. “Thank you.”

Eliot squeezes back.

They finish their lunch in relative peace, asking each other meaningless questions about each other’s timelines, trying to get a grasp of what things went differently. From what he can tell, it seems to be mostly little changes, but Eliot can’t shake the feeling that there is something that Quentin is hiding. He tries not to push it; time travel is tricky, and trying to find out your future always just makes things worse. Eliot does his best to let it go.

After they pay their bill and leave, they start to walk around the village again, and Quentin plays tour guide and points out a few more interesting spots. Later, he asks Eliot if there is anything in particular that he would like to see.

“Welllll…” Eliot stretches out the word with a dramatic flourish. “I’ve always been kind of curious what Castle Whitespire looks like.”

Quentin laughs loud and hard, clutching his chest with pure glee. “You _have_ read the Fillory books!”

Eliot scowls. “Oh whatever, laugh it up. My Quentin got a really bad case of the flu a few months back and was laid up in bed for days, so...I kind of...read them to him. All of them.”

Quentin smiles, easy and bright. “That is... _really_ fucking sweet.”

Eliot shrugs it off. “Whitespire did sound rather...grand.” He rolls his eyes. “Just lead the way, asshole.”

And so he does. They leave the village and walk for a while, down a path, past a stream, and through a forest, and after a few miles of walking, Eliot deeply regrets having ever asked for any of this. Another twenty minutes or so of their ridiculous hike, and Quentin leads him out of the trees and into a clearing, with a breathtaking view of the castle.

Immediately, Quentin is back in tour guide mode, launching into a story about how one of the towers was still under construction when he'd arrived, and how that had been when he and his Eliot had realized they were far into the past. He talked for a long time, and Eliot listened to every word, curious to understand this new world in which he’s found himself living.

Quentin is halfway through an explanation of some cursed thrones that apparently no one knows about yet, when Eliot’s fingertips start tingling. He attributes it to the apparent opium in the air and bottle of wine they’d split with lunch - this body doesn’t quite have his usual tolerance. He keeps listening, intrigued, but the tingling gets worse, creeping up from his fingers and into his hands and wrists, then into his forearms.

“Q?”

His voice must sound as serious as he feels because Quentin quiets immediately, looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I think something’s wrong.”

The tingling has spread across his shoulders and into his gut. His toes are going numb, too, and his heart starts to beat fast - he doesn’t know if it’s panic or a symptom of whatever the fuck is happening, but he knows it's bad, either way.

“Eliot?” Quentin’s voice is panicked, but it sounds far away now. He thinks his ears must be ringing.

He sways. “Quentin, I - “ His vision blurs. “At risk of sounding dramatic, I think…I might…” Eliot feels his knees buckle.

Then there is nothing but darkness.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I originally said this was going to a be two-parter? Yeah, now it's three chapters + an epilogue. This last part was already getting long, and because of the way I've formatted this story, the last few scenes make more sense as an epilogue, IMO. Sorry I took a while getting this chapter out - my carpel tunnel has been getting bad which has kind of been inhibiting my writing abilities. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Thanks for reading! Epilogue should be up within the next week.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, it is finally done. This epilogue ended up being significantly longer than anticipated, so I apologize for the delay. Some portions of text are taken directly from episode 4.05. Story tags have also been updated to reflect some warnings for this final chapter, which involve smut and minor drug use. You know, your usual Magicians stuff. Thank you for sticking with this story!
> 
> Note: This chapter was updated on 4/17 with like...twenty-ish extra words to explain away a plothole I suddenly discovered when thinking about this fanfic at three in the morning while trying to fall asleep. So I ~fixed it. If you didn't notice it before, don't worry about it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

Eliot blinks his eyes open, and his vision swims. Everything is bright - clear, open skies above him, and the sweet taste of opium in his lungs.

It worked.

He’s _back_.

He turns his head, and there’s Quentin - _his_ Quentin, with crows feet crinkling at the edges of his eyes, hair falling in his face. His voice sounds far away, but the sheer panic in Quentin’s eyes speaks volumes.

_“Eliot?”_

The voice sounds distant still, but it roots him to the earth, to Quentin, and Eliot reaches blindly for him, finding his hand and gripping tightly.

He chokes on a gasp. “Q? It’s me. _It’s me.”_

And then Quentin’s face is wet with tears and pressing into the juncture of Eliot’s shoulder, letting out choked sobs against his neck.

Eliot makes small shushing noises, pulling Quentin further into him.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m back. It’s me.”

“Thank gods,” Quentin chokes out, “It’s really…?”

He lingers on the question.

Eliot presses sure, soft lips against Quentin’s.

The kiss is chaste, compared to so many of their others, but it’s the best kiss Eliot can remember in a very long time. In almost ten years. It tastes like home.

“ _El_.”

He feels more than hears the whisper against his mouth.

“Missed you,” Eliot murmurs in response.

“So much,” Quentin agrees, carefully helping him sit up.

Eliot tugs at his hand and pulls Quentin into his arms. He settles into Eliot’s chest and sighs deep and long. Eliot presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I was so scared,” Quentin tells him in a voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to get you back. Eliot, I can’t do this without you. I can’t.”

Eliot shakes his head. “Yes, you damn well can. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met. Life would be much less interesting without me, that much is certainly true, but you would get by. You always do. You are a survivor.”

Quentin lets out a watery chuckle, wiping his eyes on Eliot’s shirt.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what Other You said, too.”

“Oh yeah? Other Me? So we _did_ switch timelines.”

“Assuming you came to as a physical kid at Brakebills, then it sounds like it.”

Eliot grabs Quentin’s hand again, and they stand, wiping the dirt off their clothes.

“I wish I’d been able to figure out why the hell it happened when I was there.”

“Just one more magical mystery for us to solve,” Quentin says drolly. “Like we haven’t been given enough of those.”

 

\--

 

Eliot startles awake with a gasp, grasping against the hard floor for purchase until he is capable of taking in his surroundings.

He breathes in sharply.

Eliot is definitely not in Fillory anymore.

Harsh, industrial lighting fills the room, and Eliot thinks the surface he’s been trying to clutch at beneath him is unforgiving concrete. It’s cold against his bare skin - is he _shirtless?_ Not that he’s all that _concerned,_ but...

He feels sticky and sweaty and uncomfortable in his own skin, and when he slowly sits up, he is greeted by the sight of his frantic boyfriend. Quentin rushes forward, reaching for him. Eliot blinks rapidly, still adjusting, and presses his palm to Quentin’s cheek. Eliot leaves a goopy, green residue on Quentin’s skin and realizes then that he is coated in some strange, aromatic herbs he has never seen before now. Quentin laughs breathlessly, placing a his hand over Eliot’s.

“Are you okay?” his boyfriend asks eagerly. “Did it work?”

Eliot huffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m guessing that means the answer is yes. I’m back.” He pauses, taking a moment to fully observe his surroundings. A frowning Mayakovsky stands a few yards from them.

“Ew,” Eliot rasps. “Are we at Brakebills  _South?”_

Quentin shrugs. “Desperate times and all that.”

“Ugh. I swore I would never return to this god forsaken place.”

“Yes, I remember the whole speech. Nothing could be done. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Eliot nods, a bit shaky, and accepts Quentin’s helping hand in rising to a stand.

“Do they have a shower in this hell hole, by chance?” He wipes sloppy hands against his pants.

Mayakovsky grunts, giving them muttered directions to a nearby bathroom, before turning on his heel to leave. Good riddance.

“C’mon,” Quentin tugs his hand and leads him down a hall. “I’ve got clean clothes for you.”

“Thank _fuck_.”

“Don’t get too excited. They’re Brakebills South standard issue.”

Eliot groans. “Unfortunate.” He twists the knob on the shower, testing the heat with his palm. “But at least I’m back somewhere with running water.”

Quentin stares at him for a long moment.

He clears his throat. “Eliot?”

“Hmm?”

Quentin’s voice is half-hesitant, half-hopeful.

“We were actually in _fucking Fillory?”_

Eliot cackles and steps under the spray of water.

 

\--

 

“You _accidentally_ gave him a blow job?” Eliot is laughing so hard his stomach hurts, the pair of them sitting next to a roaring fire while Teddy sleeps inside the cabin. They’re catching up on their mutual adventures, sharing stories, both sad and ridiculous. “Seriously, I’m not mad at _all_ , but how the fuck do you _accidentally_ blow someone, Q? Were you sleepwalking?”

Quentin snorts. _“No_. You don’t remember? The night before? Teddy spent the night at the Fenwick’s house, and we had the place to ourselves. We didn’t expect him back until mid-day, and you insisted that we needed to _make the most_ of our morning! You told me you either wanted me to wake you up with breakfast in bed, or... _breakfast_ in _bed_. Full implication! Your words!”

Eliot throws his head back and full-on cackles. “God, I completely forgot about that. That is fucking hilarious.” He smirks, slow and wide, eyes glinting. “ _So,_ how was I?”

Quentin’s cheeks flush red, and it only makes Eliot laugh harder.

“Just as I suspected,” Eliot is practically preening at this point. “The best in every timeline.”

Quentin rolls his eyes but does not deny a thing. He heaves a very put-upon sigh. “So. Brakebills, huh? Was the whole gang there?”

Eliot quiets, smile faltering, and nods his head.

“That must have been nice,” Quentin sounds a bit wistful. “I’m glad you got to see Margo. A version of her, anyway.”

Eliot remains silent.

Quentin tilts his head speculatively. “You did get to see her, didn’t you?”

Eliot meets his gaze with sad eyes. “See her, yes. Talk to her? I-” he breaks off and drums his fingers on his knee. He clears his throat. “I, um. I was a coward, Q. A fucking _coward_. I wasn’t strong enough. I had the time to go find her, to take the opportunity for what it was, but instead, I pushed her to the back of mind. It...it would have been _so hard_ to let her go again.”

Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “I still miss Bambi every day, Q. Every single day.” He wipes at his eyes, “And you know I would never trade this life I have with you and Teddy for _anything_ \- you two are my whole world. My whole life. But I just...I _couldn’t._ I wanted to, but it...it would have been too hard. I took the coward’s way out.”

Quentin closes the space between them, pulling Eliot into his arms and running gentle fingers through his hair. “You’re no coward. You could never be.”

Eliot shakes his head.

“I can be.” He needs Quentin to know this. “Sometimes.”

He pulls back, eyes widening. “That reminds me.” Eliot reaches into his pocket, pulling out a neatly folded square of paper. “I’ve got a letter for you. From your...other self.”

Quentin gawks at him. “Seriously? Uh. I - what’s it say?”

“I haven’t read it. He asked me to wait for you.”

Eliot passes the letter to him, and watches as Quentin slowly unfolds the paper.

He lets Quentin read it first, watching him with careful eyes as Quentin’s expression transforms from open curiosity to that of apparent sorrow.

“Oh,” his voice cracks, “Oh, _El.”_

Quentin passes the letter to Eliot after a long moment.

 

\--

 

Eliot lights a joint, taking a drag and holding the smoke in his lungs until there is nothing to exhale. They’re back at the Cottage now, and Eliot is making them both dinner. He leaves the curry to simmer, grabbing two short glasses from the nearby cabinet and opening a nice bottle of bourbon he’s been saving for the right occasion. He hits the joint again, then carefully executes a series of smoke rings. He ashes into the tray beside him, breathing deep.

He takes one last puff, then tamps his joint out, leaving it in the tray on the kitchen counter. He feels pleasantly buzzed now. The alcohol in Fillory had been god-awful, and he is absurdly happy to have access to something beyond a flask full of moonshine. He pours himself and Quentin a few fingers of whiskey, turns the stove’s heat down to low, and takes a seat next to his boyfriend on the couch. He passes him a drink - the smaller pour, of course - and takes a sip of his bourbon before setting his glass down on the table beside them and draping an arm over Quentin’s shoulder.

Quentin settles into him, leaning his head onto Eliot’s shoulder with a content sigh.

“Hell of a few days, huh?”

Quentin nods into his shoulder. “Didn’t sleep last night. Too much to be done.”

Eliot rests his chin on top of Quentin’s head. “Sounds exhausting.” He waits a beat. “Thank you for finding a way to bring me back. Fillory was pretty fucking interesting, but...I was scared I’d never figure out how to get back to you.”

Quentin shifts, meeting his eyes, a small smile blooming across his features. “I wasn’t about to let you leave me that easily. I worked too hard to get you in the first place.”

Eliot grins.

“From what I heard from the Q of that timeline, _and_ what I’ve heard from you - it really seems like we are the ones better off. Ten years younger, and comparatively, we are definitely the couple with their shit together. Poor saps.”

Quentin gulps down half his drink, and Eliot has to restrain himself from commenting. It is a _sipping_ whiskey. Yet he can’t help but smile even wider with affection.

“I had to write Other Me a letter just make sure they don’t fuck things up.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Quentin agrees.

Eliot sips his whiskey, savoring the taste on his tongue. ”Idiots.”

 

\--

 

_Quentin,_

 

_I will keep this short, since we are on a time crunch. Eliot and I talked a bit, and here’s the gist - I got the distinct impression that your boyfriend thinks you are a straight boy who settled for him out of obligation. So, you should probably fix that before it becomes a bigger problem than it already is. He seemed pretty awed that there was a universe in which you chose him, like that. My Eliot hadn’t realized I liked guys at first, either, and he too was a bit of a dumbass about it. It seems like you guys could really stand to work on your communication skills._

 

_That being said, I’m really glad you have each other. Take care of one another._

 

_-Q_

 

Eliot cannot speak. He tries, he thinks, but some aborted, choked sound gets caught in his throat. He can’t meet Quentin’s eyes. He just stares at the paper in his hands and focuses on the sound of his breathing.

“El.”

With shaky fingers, he re-folds the paper and places it on the ground.

“Eliot. _Please_ look at me.”

He raises his head after a long moment and meets Quentin’s gaze with great reluctance.

Quentin scoots closer to him, thigh to thigh, and takes Eliot’s hand in his.

“I’m sorry.”

The words give Eliot pause. Shouldn’t he be the one apologizing? For being such an insecure wreck of a man that it requires a letter from another timeline to get them to address their problems?

Eliot shakes his head. “You don’t have anything you need to be sorry about, Q.”

“It sounds like I really, really do.”

He frowns. “My issues are not your responsibility.”

Quentin squeezes his hand. “They are, if they exist because I haven’t made it clear exactly how much I love and want you." He clears his throat and continues, “You, Eliot Waugh, are the love of my fucking life, and I would choose you in any timeline. In any lifetime.”

He reaches up to cup Eliot’s cheek with his palm. “I am not with you because we got stuck here together. I am not with you because you were the _convenient_ choice. I’m with you because you’re strong, because you’re handsome, because you keep me sane and take care of me on those days when I just can’t get out of bed in the morning...because you’re an amazing father, and you’re so, so smart, and so incredibly beautiful.” Quentin wipes a stray tear from Eliot’s face with the pad of his thumb. “I didn’t settle for you, El. I got the cute guy I had a crush on from the moment I stumbled onto the Brakebills lawn. I got fucking _lucky_.”

Eliot tries to form a response, but he can’t find the words. He doesn’t have any left. Instead, he leans in and presses his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck and just _breathes_. Quentin wraps his arms around him, holding him close, and Eliot sinks into the embrace. They remain like that for several minutes, nothing but the sound of the mingled breathing and the crackling of the fire beside them.

He nuzzles Quentin’s neck, then pulls back. Quentin wipes the last of the tears from Eliot’s cheeks. Eliot laughs under his breath, embarrassed at his breakdown, but Quentin is looking at him with kind eyes.

Eliot gives him a soft smile. “I love you, Q. So much. I have for long before we ever got to Fillory.”

Quentin looks taken aback, eyes widening. Then he’s beaming, wide and bright and lovely. Eliot leans in, tucks a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear, and kisses him soundly.

 

\--

 

Eliot can still taste the curry on Quentin’s tongue as he plunders his mouth. He’s got Quentin pressed up against their bedroom door, both of them too impatient to make it any further into the room. Quentin moans beneath his lips, hard against Eliot’s thigh, and Eliot slides a leg between Quentin’s, who writhes against him in response.

“Fuck, Eliot, that feels so good.” He gasps when Eliot trails his lips down to the juncture of his neck and bites down hard. “God, I missed you. Missed this.”

“I’m here now, baby,” Eliot murmurs, kissing his way back up his neck and breathing in his ear. “Never gonna leave you again if I can help it.”

“Better not.”

Quentin unbuttons Eliot’s vest with nimble fingers.

“Careful with the silk,” Eliot mutters against his mouth, taking Quentin’s lower lip between his teeth.

His boyfriend tosses the vest onto the floor in response.

Eliot laughs and pulls Quentin’s shirt over his head, pausing to give him a fond look, then he slowly kisses his way down Quentin’s chest and drops to his knees.

Quentin lets out a sharp breath, and Eliot tugs at the button of his boyfriend’s jeans, pushing them down around his ankles. He teases him for a long time, first, placing feather-light kisses everywhere _but_ his cock, waits till he’s gotten Quentin whimpering and begging for it. Then he takes him into his mouth without ceremony, down to the hilt, and cups Quentin’s balls in his hand.

He’s glad he remembered to put the wards up when they first came upstairs because Quentin shouts loudly enough to wake the whole house.

It’s only been two days apart, but it feels like _weeks_ , somehow, and he can feel the tension in Quentin’s thighs more quickly than either of them expected.

“El, I’m gonna - "

Eliot doubles down on his efforts, swallowing around him, and Quentin comes with a cry, shivering under Eliot’s ministrations.

Quentin slowly sinks down to the floor, joining Eliot there, and falls into his arms with a groan. They lay there in a heap, Eliot stroking Quentin’s hair as he comes down from the high. Long minutes pass in comfortable silence.

Eliot is beginning to wonder if Quentin is falling asleep, here on the ground, when suddenly there is a hand in his, dragging him toward the bed and pushing Eliot onto his back.

He quirks a brow.

Quentin straddles him and smiles slyly. “Your turn.”

 

\--

 

“So,” Eliot starts, eyes heavy-lidded and pupils shot, “I may have swiped something from Other Me’s nightstand drawer while I was on Earth.”

Quentin is splayed out beneath him.

“Please tell me it’s lube. I forgot to pick up more cooking oil at the market, and we’re definitely running low.”

All of their clothing is already in a pile on the floor beside their bed, and Eliot reaches down and pulls a small plastic bottle from the pocket of his pants, holding it up and waggling his eyebrows.

“Thank _fuck_.” Quentin laughs. “Other Us are gonna be _pissed_.”

Eliot presses a lingering kiss to Quentin’s neck.

“Hmm,” he makes a non-committal sound of agreement. “They’ll survive.”

"If you guys swapped bodies, how did you even bring - "

Quentin's cut off with a kiss. 

"Magic," Eliot answers with a dazzling smile. 

He pops the cap on the bottle, pouring the slick over his fingers. Eliot circles Quentin’s hole, slow and deliberate, until Quentin is shaking beneath him, breathing ragged.

“El, _please_ ,” he whispers. “Need you so bad.”

Eliot slowly presses a finger inside him, leaning down to cover Quentin’s mouth with his own.

“Is this what you need, sweetheart?” he asks in a low, hushed tone.

“More,” Quentin begs.

Ordinarily Eliot would draw things out longer, tease him for long minutes, but truth be told, he needs this as badly as Quentin does right now. He adds another finger, stretching him, then a third, and fucks him with his fingers until he’s got Quentin clutching desperately at the bedsheets.

“Are you ready for me, Q?” he murmurs, voice laced with heady promise.

“Yes, god, _please_ , El.”

He grabs the lube again, slicking his cock, and lines up at Quentin’s entrance. Eliot pushes in slowly, biting his lip, and Quentin rocks against him, urging him on.

“More,” Quentin pleads again, and who is Eliot to deny him?

Eliot picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder, and Quentin lets out a high-pitched whine.

“Is this it?” he whispers hot against Quentin’s ear. “Is that how you like it, sweetheart? Like feeling me deep inside of you?”

 _“Yes_ ,” Quentin gasps. “Fuck, El. _Yes_.”

He wraps his arms around Eliot’s neck, dragging him down into a messy kiss.

“So good,” Quentin pants against his mouth, and Eliot lets out a long moan when Quentin clenches around him.

Eliot is close already, thighs quivering, so he reaches a hand between them, deft fingers wrapping around Quentin’s leaking cock. Quentin keens. Eliot strokes him in time with his thrusts, circling the head of Quentin’s cock with his thumb.

Quentin lets out a sob, spilling over Eliot’s fist, and Eliot’s hips stutter against him. Raw pleasure rolls through his entire body, and Eliot can feel his toes curl as he shivers. He collapses on top of Quentin, trying to catch his breath.

It takes a few moments for Eliot’s vision to clear, then he’s gently slipping from Quentin and reaching for a towel they’ve got waiting on the table beside them. He wipes them both up best he can, and Quentin presses himself against Eliot, resting his head on his chest.

“Love you, El.”

It’s not the first time he’s heard the words - not even the first time today - but this time Eliot feels the warmth of the words all the way in his bones.

He smiles, heart light. “Love you too, Q.”

 

\--

 

“Did it happen?” Eliot asks, sitting below the Fillorian wedding arch as foreign memories flood his mind.

Their quest is over. Their timeline has be rewritten again.

“Fifty years,” Quentin says with awe.

“It happened.” Eliot swallows hard.

“It was sort of beautiful…”

“It really was.”

Quentin starts, “I know this sounds dumb, but…um. _Us_. Uh, think about it. We - we work.” He sounds hopeful, almost eager. “We know it ‘cause we lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?”

Eliot looks at him for a long moment, considering. Is Quentin trying to say what Eliot thinks he is? He’s still dealing with an influx of memories - they both are. It’s all too much.

“We were just injected with a half-century of emotions, so I get that maybe you’re not thinking clearly.”

Quentin looks disheartened, but continues anyway.

“No, I’m just saying...what if we...gave it a shot?” He meets Eliot’s eyes. “Would that be that crazy?” Quentin shakes his head. “Why the fuck _not?”_

Eliot’s heart seizes up with fear. He wants to say yes to this, to lean in and kiss this lovely man and agree - _why the fuck not?_ But he’s frozen to the spot. This isn’t Fillory of the past, this isn’t the same thing. A certain set of circumstances drew them together in that timeline, and it was fucking _beautiful_ , but this isn’t that time, and they don’t have a mosaic or a child binding them together. Not to mention that they have Alice to contend with in this timeline, and Eliot really thinks that Quentin would be better off with anybody other than him.

He’s too fucked up for Quentin.

His Q deserves far better than Eliot.

Quentin does not really want him, not like this. He _can’t_.

Eliot clears his throat. “You’re just confused, Q. These memories...it’s a lot to comprehend.”

Quentin’s eyes flicker with disappointment, and his voice hardens. “I’m not confused, Eliot. I know exactly what I want. _Who_ I want.”

Eliot can feel his racing heartbeat in his ears. “I don’t…”

Quentin sighs, looking to the ground. “Look...it’s okay if you don’t want me, or like me back, or whatever. I don’t want to mess up our friendship, and I’m sorry if this made things weird between us. I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated, or like...stuck with me, because of what we were to each other in the other timeline. It’s okay.”

It’s like his words flip a switch in his mind, triggers another set of memories. Eliot remembers a strange morning, waking up at Brakebills in a bed that was no longer his. Another version of Quentin Coldwater - younger and earnest and head-over-heels for a different version of Eliot Waugh.

He remembers a letter and a conversation, a plea for him to understand.

Quentin has always been so much braver than him.

Eliot takes a steadying breath.

The least he can do is try and be brave in return.

“Q?” his voice is quiet.

“Yeah?” Quentin looks up, meeting his gaze with sad eyes.

“Did you…” Eliot plucks up his courage. “Did you really have a crush on me, back when you first arrived at Brakebills?” His hands are shaking, so he presses them against his thighs. “I remember us talking about it in the other timeline.”

Quentin nods, looking at him speculatively. “I really did, yeah.”

Eliot lets out a breath he did not realize he’d been holding.

“Why didn’t you say something back then?”

“Are you kidding?” Quentin asks with disbelief. “You were so...glamorous and self-assured. You made me so nervous. I thought I was out of your league.”

Eliot shakes his head. “And I thought you were another straight boy I could pine over but never touch.”

“Pine over?”

“Oh, yes, there was _lots_ of pining.”

Quentin smiles. “Really?”

“Really,” Eliot agrees, and his racing heart starts to settle a little.

Eliot reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. The gesture feels more intimate than any of the sex he can remember having in his current life.

“So,” Quentin breathes. “Where does that leave us, exactly?”

And Eliot wants to be brave.

He cups Quentin’s cheek, leans in, and kisses him.

 

\--

 

Watching somewhere from afar, Jane Chatwin puts away her pocket watch and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I'd been able to get this up before last night's episode, but with a much straighter time travel/body swap plotline, I was at least pushed to see this story through. Thank you again for reading; this went from what was planned as a two-parter that I thought would round out at about 3k words to this ridiculous piece. Thank you for sticking around, and please let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably only be two parts, maybe three, and will wind up having spoilers through at least 4.05. Thank you for reading!


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